If Ever I Were Human
by Kuroneko19
Summary: Defeated by Sebastian Michaelis and left for dead by his "master", Drocell Keinz was abandoned and forgotten in the remains of the Mandalay manor. Given a second chance at life, will he be able to forge a new existence from the ashes of London?
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:**__ Greetings and salutations! I am Kuroneko19, but feel free to call me K-chan. ^_^ This is my first submission to the __**Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler**__ archives, and I'm hoping everyone enjoys the story._

_The main character is Drocell Keinz, the former human who was turned into a doll and tragically used as a pawn by the antagonist of Season 1. After being defeated by Sebastian Michaelis and left for dead by his "master", Drocell was abandoned in the remains of the Mandalay estate, forgotten and ignored. Set after the events of Season 1, Drocell is revived and seeks to live normally among those salvaging their lives from London's inferno. A romance and family-centered story, __**If Ever I Were Human**__ chronicles Drocell Keinz's attempts at coming to grips with what he is and possibly regaining what he'd lost while building up relationships with those around him._

_Please remember: all questions, comments, constructive criticisms, and/or suggestions are welcome and appreciated. Thank you!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I own nothing from __**Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler**__. I just like to write. ^_^_

* * *

><p><strong>If Ever I Were Human<strong>  
>By Kuroneko<p>

**Prologue: Calm in the Inferno**

The streets of London radiated an unholy light, etching into the night sky a blazing horizon of hellish crimson and burning orange. Panicked crowds made an attempt to escape the inferno, trampling individuals – men, women, children – without discretion. High into the pitch black and starless blanket enshrouding the city cut the tendril of flames and smoke, and ashes rained down on the people below.

Born of the devil, born of the vengeance of God – rationale for this pandemonium escaped those who attempted to rationalize this sudden maelstrom of events. In their state of alarm, many thought themselves delusional upon seeing fire rain down upon them from the maw of white demonic hound with wild crimson eyes. The inferno raged, consuming building after building, person after helpless person. London had become a proverbial Hell.

And yet in amidst the chaos gripping this once proud and noble city, there was one deceptively calm place; its occupant, however, was oblivious to all around him. Set on a messy workbench and propped against the wall, the tall and lean figure sat. A tall black top hat was perched atop his head, snatches of vivid auburn poking out from underneath. This lithe figure looked as though asleep, his head tilted at an angle and his hands hanging limply at his sides.

If he was indeed asleep, it was a sleep that was deep and unrelenting. Perhaps even eternal. For what other reason could a man so easily disregard the bedlam roaring just beyond the wall he leaned against?

The city of London raged on until the break of dawn, the curiously dressed man bedecked in near carnival-like attire forgotten and ignored in favor of reigning in the chaos.


	2. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**__ Greetings and salutations! I am Kuroneko19, but feel free to call me K-chan. ^_^ This is my first submission to the __**Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler**__ archives, so I'm hoping everyone enjoys the story._

_The main character is Drocell Keinz, the former human who was turned into a doll and tragically used as a pawn by the antagonist of Season 1. After being defeated by Sebastian Michaelis and left for dead by his "master", Drocell was abandoned in the remains of the Mandalay estate, forgotten and ignored. Set after the events of Season 1, Drocell is revived and seeks to live normally among those salvaging their lives from London's inferno. A romance and family-centered story, __**If Ever I Were Human**__ chronicles Drocell Keinz's attempts at coming to grips with what he is and possibly regaining what he'd lost while building up relationships with those around him._

_Please remember: all questions, comments, constructive criticisms, and/or suggestions are welcome and appreciated. Thank you!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I own nothing from __**Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler**__. I just like to write. ^_^_

* * *

><p><strong>If Ever I Were Human<strong>  
>By Kuroneko<p>

**Chapter 1: Surprises of the Morning After**

The Undertaker strolled – or rather, _meandered_ – into his parlor with the swagger of a man satisfied with the previous evening's escapades and the results brought forth with daybreak. Smoldering ruins of London's wondrous buildings and national treasures served as ominous memorials all around, yet his own place of business appeared to be wonderfully unscathed, if one discounted the singed patches round the perimeter.

The Undertaker himself – a peculiar man bedecked in black and grey and sporting long silvery hair in addition to a queer sense of humor – was in a fine fettle. If ever disaster were to strike unannounced, fortunes were made by morticians. And with the guarantees provided by that bothersome William T. Spears in exchange for the services he'd rendered the previous evening, the Undertaker was quite literally reaping the benefits of his professions both former and present.

"And thusly the sun shines its powerful rays upon the scene of destruction; Heaven shining its loving light on the multitudes and casting away the Shadows of Darkness." The Undertaker cackled giddily as he shut the heavy door behind him. "There's a loaded statement if I'd ever heard one." He rubbed his hands together gleefully as his eyes scanned the parlor from beneath overhanging bangs. "Oh, well. Perfect timing, I say, for a disaster of this proportion to hit. Plenty of work to be had, though I rather wish it wouldn't happen altogether-like. Ah well."

He shrugged and smiled insanely. "More guests to my humble abode, and the more the merrier!" he exclaimed to the rows of caskets, perfectly at ease with the expected lack of applause. Doing a bit of a twirl and another high-pitched giggle, he swept into the back of the parlor and drew back the curtain.

"And how are we doing, then?" The Undertaker asked of the figure sitting atop his workbench. The silver-haired man walked up to the prone form and tsked. "Still the same as you've been, not that I'd expect anything different. Still, I got those termites out of you, so I suppose that's better than before." He reached out and patted the form on the cheek, still inducing no response. He giggled a little. "Rotting wood and ruined straw. A pretty thing like you shouldn't be made of such cheap materials. Lucky for you I know how to take proper care of my customers."

The door to the parlor opened, hitting the small bell and causing a light ringing to pierce through the quiet.

"Yoo-hoo~!" A voice trilled from just over the threshold. "Is anyone home?"

"We're inquiring after the Undertaker," another, more dignified and rather ruffled voice spoke loudly.

"Halloo?" called out yet another one. Younger than the other two by the sound of it.

The Undertaker rolled his eyes beneath his lengthened fringe. Though he did enjoy the company, _live _guests could be rather troublesome at time, particularly when they came bearing what the unsuspecting person may discard as modified gardening tools. He found this latest generation's viewing of Death Scythes to be one of life's more amusing ironies, though one could hardly come to call such items "scythes", to be honest. Traditional scythes were so rare to come by – these newfangled "modified" versions just weren't as original or imaginative as the old ones were. He hadn't seen any sickles in a while, either, now that he came to think on it…

"Well it seems I have more guests, and one of whom I've had in before. Repeats are rare to come by in my line of business," the Undertaker said pleasantly as he stepped out from the workroom, peeking past the curtain with an insane grin plastered upon his face once laying eyes on the bespectacled trio. "Would any of you gentlemen care to try a coffin? Feel free to test as many as you like."

"I'm afraid we'll have to decline, seeing as –" the dark-haired man in the center was rudely interrupted by a loud and indignant snort.

"'Try a coffin'?" The interrupter flipped his long red hair arrogantly, ignoring the furious glare aimed in his direction. "Those things are so _terribly_ uncomfortable – and unsightly, too! How the _dead_ can sleep in such abominations, let alone a _Reaper_ –"

His rant was quickly ended with the sharp _thwack_ of a pruning pole making contact with his skull.

"What you found yourself in wasn't my craftsmanship. It was the one belonging to the local undertaker of the village near to the flower field you happened to fall asleep in – I just happened to receive you with the rest of my customers," the Undertaker cackled, thoroughly enjoying the reprimanding of the Reaper clad in crimson. "You haven't yet experienced one of _my_ coffins, Mr. Sutcliff."

The one known as Grell Sutcliff glared over red-rimmed frames. "Nor should I ever like to!"

_THWACK!_

"Haven't I told you before to mind your tongue?"

"Hey, now settle down!" the youth with blond-atop-black hair to the mortician's right laughed nervously. "If you keep this up, you'll damage poor Mr. Sutcliff's head!"

William T. Spears adjusted his own dark frames with his "scythe" and looked over to the lad disapprovingly. "Mr. Sutcliff has proven on multiple occasions that he has an exceptionally thick skull. A sharp knock about the head isn't likely to do much, I assure you."

"Why must you be such brute, Will?" Grell whined, rubbing his head tenderly. "Hitting me with your Death Scythe and ridiculing me in front of Ronnie – such nerve!"

"And again I find myself in the position of reprimanding you," William said casually as he raised his pole for the third time. Grell shied away, quickly taking refuge behind the youth.

The dark-haired Reaper sighed and turned his attention to the wide-grinning mortician.

"I apologize for Mr. Sutcliff's behavior," he said, bowing slightly.

The Undertaker casually waved him aside. "I wouldn't mind him much. I think he's just still a bit sore at me from when we first met and I called him 'unsatisfactory'~."

"Indeed I am!" Grell huffed indignantly. "A 'weak mouth' indeed! _And_ you said I was wasting my effort the other night, _among other things_! I don't care _how_ good-looking you are under those bangs of yours, insulting a woman is simply _rude_!"

"And dumping your elder into an urn of salt isn't~?"

Ronald snorted and looked over his shoulder at the seething redhead, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Wait, you mean you actually dumped the Reaper who judged Marie Antoinette into an urn of salt because he _insulted_ you?"

"Of course I did!" Grell exclaimed, incensed at the memory. "And wouldn't you know, of _all_ things, he found the experience _enjoyable_!"

The lad laughed even harder, causing the Undertaker's grin to increase.

"Ronald, is it?" The mortician studied him a bit from under his bangs. "I don't believe we've met."

The youth blinked once before smiling widely. "Nope, guess not! Ronald Knox, at your service!" He swept a dramatic bow. "You probably didn't see me last night with all the madness. I was detained for a bit in Westminster, and that didn't help matters, either. Will here had to explain you to me before we got here."

"Ah. Well, that explains it, then." The Undertaker looked over to William and leaned against a nearby stack of empty coffins. He tapped his black elongated fingernails against the lid of the top coffin in a steady tattoo. "Well, now that we've been properly introduced and bantered about, why don't you gentlemen tell me what it is you'd like? I pulled myself away from my work to help you all last night, and now I have to make up for it before I have customers coming in by the cartloads."

"That was something beyond our control, though I do apologize for the inconvenience," William said with evident weariness. "I made good on our bargain, however, and saw to it that your fines have been taken care of."

"Thanks muchly, but you haven't answered my question~."

The funeral director's answer came in the form of three large and rather formidable stacks of papers slamming down atop the very pile of coffins he was leaning on. Frowning at the paper towers, he looked dourly past his bangs at the near-frowning Reaper before him.

"While we successfully collected and packaged an impressive number of Cinematic Records, the library requires that we fill out the necessary paperwork to indicate that our volumes catalogued and shelved are indeed complete and can be entered into the databases as such," William explained, his tone indicating a significant amount of displeasure. "And although you are registered as being retired, you're still required to assist us with the forms as you lent us your assistance."

"Yeah, and I'm hoping we get this done fast enough so that I can make it to the party they're throwing later on today," Ronald put in, staring at the forms as if willing them to finish themselves. "They're giving us a few days' reprieve, but we can't start until _after_ we fill out these papers."

The Undertaker raised an unseen eyebrow. "We won't have to write the reflection letters as well, will we?" The notion held little appeal; too many souls collected in one night, and certainly no time to have garnered much information to reflect on.

"Given the circumstances, the reflection letters have been waived aside except in the circumstances of those already placed on soul collection lists and under observation prior," William answered, the relief in his voice evident. "The Main Branch is only requesting the reports."

"And good thing, too," said Ronald. "The unpaid overtime was bad enough with all that mess. I've never liked overtime, especially when they don't pay for it…" He sighed heavily.

"The Main Branch's been getting a bit obsessed with paperwork lately, I've noticed," the Undertaker commented as he pulled the top sheaf of papers from the nearest pile. "Even in retirement I find myself filling out forms. '_Brendon Harper'_, eh? Not mine."

"I had him," Grell said bitterly, plucking the sheets from the elder Reaper's claw-like hand. "Not the most impressive man, I'll admit."

"'_Jennifer Fritz_'? Oh, so _that's_ the little lady I found in the alleyway~."

"Too bad; _she_ was a looker," Ronald commented as he took a few pages for himself. "'_Laurence Fisher._' Yup, I remember him."

"Sign, sign, sign away~!" The Undertaker giggled as he placed his first report to the side. "So many pages~!"

"_Must_ you sing?" Grell complained.

"This is my establishment, so I can do as I like."

"Indeed," William concurred, scrawling his name at the bottom of his paper.

"Like you can complain anyway, Mr. Sutcliff – you sing in the shower loud enough for the rest of us to hear you!"

Grell brandished his pen in the younger, laughing Reaper's face. "Now see here, Ronald, I –"

Whatever tirade the man was set to go on was immediately cut off by the door to the funeral parlor swinging wide open, admitting two younger and rather boisterous young children.

"See, look! This place hasn't been touched a bit!" the young boy of about nine cheered, his light brown hair a right mess as he dashed over to look about.

"Wow! And it's so clean!" remarked the blonde next to him, long tresses bouncing with her. She looked over to the Undertaker and grinned broadly, revealing a couple of missing teeth. "You have a really neat place, mister!"

"And it's so cool!" said the boy, looking at one of the more ornately designed coffins in complete awe. "Wow… this is a really neat coffin!"

"Would you care to try it out?" The Undertaker practically glided next to the coffin in question. "It's quite comfortable, actually – I've tried it myself~."

"I bet you try out _all_ your coffins," Grell sneered. He looked down at the children, somewhat amused despite the paperwork situation. He was careful not to show it, but he had to admit that they were awfully adorable despite their flustered faces and windblown hair; even if he was a Grim Reaper, he still had a soft spot for children.

"I most certainly do," replied the Undertaker. "What kind of businessman would I be if I didn't try out my products? I wouldn't want any unhappy customers~."

"You've never had any unhappy customers before, have you, Mister?" the girl inquired, sapphire blue eyes wide and curious.

The Undertaker cackled. "Well, now, little miss, I –"

"Anthony David and Aria Lee Jenkins!"

The occupants of the funeral parlor's front room jumped at the harsh tone of voice, and looked over to the door to find a rather flustered young woman in her early twenties standing just beyond the threshold.

The Undertaker blinked before allowing a new smile to pass over his pale features. "Ah, well if it isn't Miss Evans again! I take it these two young ones belong to you?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that," she replied breathlessly. She stepped into the parlor, nodding politely to the reapers standing huddled off to the side. Just behind her was a boy of about eleven or twelve, a worn brown pageboy hat settled atop his unkempt raven hair. He eyed the men warily before following his guardian in silence as she walked up to the Undertaker. The skirt of her mauve dress swished gently when she came to a stop. "I'm terribly sorry if they've been a bother."

"They're not a problem at all!" he assured her. "We were just getting acquainted, actually."

"Look at this, Miss Christy!" the woman looked over to Anthony and gave a start upon finding the boy resting comfortably in the casket. "It's really comfy, just like what the man said!"

"And it's so pretty, too!" Aria exclaimed, indicating the rosewood lid engraved with an intricately designed swirl pattern.

"Care to try one out~?" The woman looked at the Undertaker incredulously, finding the older man to be grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "I can personally recommend one if you like~."

"Thank you, but I'll decline for now," she said pleasantly, though in a rather strained voice. "Andy, darling, please get out of there. And Aria, don't lean against the lid. You could damage something if it falls."

"Sorry, Miss Christy," the two said dejectedly. Anthony jumped out from the casket and stood next to his sister, who was looking off to the side at the silent men off to the side.

"Oh, they aren't causing any trouble," the Undertaker assured her. "Really, now, Miss Evans; we were only having fun~."

The lady sighed and offered the man a small smile. "I know. It's just that you'll need those caskets soon, and in a large abundance, too. And it looks as though we're interrupting you and your gentlemen friends, so it's probably best if we go now."

"Hey, don't be!" Ronald said cheerfully, striding up the woman and sweeping a bow. "It's nice to be interrupted by a lovely lady such as yourself."

"T-thank you, sir, but we really ought to be going," she said, backing away abruptly but not hesitating to give him a rather icy look that didn't go unnoticed by the flirtatious reaper.

"Before you leave~." She looked over to the Undertaker curiously. "I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to assist me with my clients. I doubt I'll be able to dress them prettily with all this destruction without a little help."

Her face lit up with a very sincere smile as she nodded. "Certainly. My shop and supplies were left unscathed, so I'd be more than happy to assist. Just let me know and I'll do what I can."

"Thank you very much. Good day to you then. And you to you kiddies, too." He smiled over at the youngest two before leaning forward and looking behind Miss Evans to peer at the silent boy behind her. "And a very good day to you, too, young Mister Forsythe."

The boy looked at him stonily before following his guardian and the siblings out the door.

"I take it you know them?" William queried as the door closed.

"Christabel Evans: a twenty-year-old seamstress and owner of a small curio and trinket shop about three blocks away from here. She inherited the shop from her mother about seven years ago. I took care of the missus personally."

"And the kids?" asked Ronald.

"All orphans she took in. Quite an interesting little family."

Grell harrumphed. "She wouldn't look much good in red."

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Sutcliff," Ronald said considerately. "There's probably quite a bit of potential in her." He turned over in the mortician's direction. "Say, there isn't a _Mister_ Evans about is there?"

He earned a prompt swat on the head with a pair of pruning shears.

"You'll refrain from flirting while we're here on business," William reprimanded sternly, retracting the pole. Ronald laughed nervously as he rubbed his sore head.

"Sure thing, Mr. Spears."

**…**

"Hey, Toby, wait up!"

Tobias Forsythe looked over his shoulder with a frown, watching as his adopted younger brother rushed to catch up to him.

Anthony Jenkins stopped just behind the elder boy and panted heavily. He looked up accusatorily. "No fair, Toby! You have longer legs than I do!"

"That didn't stop you from running into the Undertaker's parlor with Aria when Miss Christy told you we needed to stick together."

The nine-year-old pouted, but said nothing in response.

Toby sighed. "Look, Miss Christy said we could go exploring while she and Aria went to go see that Mr. Soma and Mr. Agni about those curry buns they're selling, so let's you and me try to find something nice for the shop. How's that sound?"

Andy's face perked up. "Do you think we'll be able to find anything before it gets dark out?"

The eleven-year-old smirked, his dark grey eyes twinkling with hidden mischief. "I don't see why not. We've got all day to go hunting, and nobody's going to notice a couple of kids wandering around with all this wreckage."

"And you know all the best places to find things, don't you?"

Toby's smirk increased tenfold.

"Of course I do."

**…**

It was quite some time later when the last of forms had been filled and Ronald Knox let out a loud sigh of relief before slumping onto a nearby casket.

"Done at last! Bloody paperwork took us nearly to lunch time!"

"Tea and cookies anyone~?" the three younger reapers looked up to find the Undertaker with a tarnished silver tray supporting four beakers filled with what looked to be the offered tea, and a small urn filled with bone shaped cookies.

"With pleasure!" Grell stated, hastily grabbing one of the beakers. He gave it a rather dry look. "Still no appropriate tea servicing, I see."

"I wouldn't give anyone anything I didn't drink out of myself." The Undertaker cackled as he sat down across from his guests, setting his tray in the small table in the center of the small circle coffins they sat upon.

"You certainly have morbid tastes," Ronald mumbled, eyeing the beaker and a cookie before consigning himself to taking a bite from the treat. Swallowing it down with a swig of tea, he threw on a roguish grin. "So, anyway, about that lady from before – the one with the kids…?"

"Miss Evans again?" the mortician laced his long fingers together and rested his chin upon them. "Taken a fancy to her, have you? I wouldn't recommend pursuing her if I were you~."

"Oh? A feisty one, eh?"

"It would hardly be surprising," said William, stunning the others save the Undertaker. "I collected her mother's approximately seven years ago, around the time she inherited the shop. Quite a tenacious young thing even then from what I recall of the woman's Cinematic Record."

"Sounds interesting."

"And my reply to that is you'll meet a far more interesting object of your affection later on at that party of yours, I'm certain."

The Undertaker chuckled. "One of you may be seeing that little family sooner than you think. It may even be Mr. Sutcliff~."

"Oh?" Grell blinked, surprised at hearing his name.

The Undertaker cocked his head to the side in amusement. "One of them is soon to be on the Soul Collection List before long, I wager."

"Sure hope it isn't the little lady," said Ronald, grabbing another bone-shaped cookie.

"Regardless of who it is, it isn't anything we have to worry about at the present." William shuffled a stack of paper and set them in with the rest in the black briefcase he'd brought along for the occasion. "And, thankfully, our job here is over. Thank you very much for your time, Undertaker."

"Not at all, not at all~." The Undertaker rose and stretched a little. "Now that that's over then, I'd actually like for you gentlemen to take a look at something I found not all that long ago. I think one of you left it behind on accident~."

"Left behind?" William frowned. "It wouldn't happen to be a pair of glasses belonging to one of our trainees, would it? I seem to recall young Abraham Mims misplacing his; he was reprimanded, but his original glasses were never recovered and consequently had to be replaced."

"That boy is _always_ loosing things," Grell lamented. "He's lost his standard-issue training scythe three times now, I've heard."

"Actually, it's something one of the _older_ members left behind~." The Undertaker chuckled.

"As in one of our dispatch officers?" William's omnipresent frown increased as he adjusted his glasses with the edge of his scythe. "How bothersome. Just where is this misplaced item?"

"In the back, on my workbench~." He hopped onto his feet and hurried into the workroom, pulling back the curtain as he did so. William, Grell, and Ronald followed closely, Ronald still clutching onto his beaker of tea and munching on yet another dog biscuit-like cookie.

Frowning at the darkness of the workroom, William pulled the curtain back a bit more to allow for more of the sunlight to enter. The Undertaker stood in the back, all but sitting on the table portion of his workbench. He had his arm slung around an indiscernible hunched form.

"Hey, what's that?" Ronald asked through a mouthful of cookie. William looked at him distastefully before brushing away a few of the cookie crumbs that had landed onto his pristine black jacket.

"I get all sorts of interesting customers, but none quite like this one," the Undertaker said, voice laced with amusement. "I must admit, though: he was especially difficult to piece back together. It's a pity he wasn't made with better materials, though."

One pale, ebony-nailed hand gently caressed what must have been the object's face. Grasping the chin, the Undertaker lifted his "customer's" face up, revealing the pale visage. From their place in the doorway, the three Grim Reapers could make out the cropped auburn hair and magenta-tinted eyelids, as well as the teal fleur-de-lis tattoo beneath the right eye.

"Beautiful, isn't he?"

A loud gasp and the sound of shattering glass broke William and Ronald's transfixed gazes, drawing their attention to the red-clad reaper in-between them.

Grell's eyes were wide with recognition, his mouth hanging agape and his face holding a stunned expression. Words seemed beyond him for a moment before he was able to choke out the name he found himself at wont to forget about all over again.

"_Drocell… Drocell Keinz_‽"


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Fabricated Record**

The name reverberated in their ears with stunning clarity.

"Drocell Keinz…" William repeated, his brow furrowed.

The edges of the Undertaker's mouth twitched in amusement. "Oh, so you know him then?"

"Number 493 on the To-Die List," the dark-haired reaper muttered. His eyes slid over in Grell's direction. "He was supposed to have been taken care of already."

"Whoa, hang on now!" They all looked at Ronald, whose face radiated absolute confusion. "Wasn't his soul collected five years ago?"

"Yes, by Vincent Burgess." William looked back over to the immobile doll. "But we later detected unexplained activity and put him back on the ledger. Grell Sutcliff was supposed to take care of it as a part of his demotion."

"It looks like _somebody_ wasn't doing his job~," the Undertaker hinted.

"Are you kidding me‽" Grell exploded. "He's not alive! I watched with my own two eyes as Bassy took him down! His head was split and leaking out straw!"

"Sebastian Michaelis." William's eyes narrowed and his face twisted as if he'd swallowed a lemon. "So rather than doing your job, you allowed a _demon_ to do it; is that what you're saying, Grell Sutcliffe?"

"W-what? _No!_" Grell huffed indignantly. "I'll have you know that I was up to my elbows in battling with those dolls belonging to Drocell Keinz, _and_ I had to do it without my customized Death Scythe! It was all very vexing!"

"But that doesn't explain why his soul wasn't collected," William snapped, pointing his own Scythe in the direction of their topic of conversation.

Grell pouted. "It was only a temporary soul. Don't they ordinarily just disappear?"

"If that was your train of thought, it would seem that you're in dire need of further demotion. And _that_, Grell Sutcliff, requires _additional_ paperwork on my part."

**…**

"Here it is – Number 46!" Toby announced, pointing to the charred shop just ahead.

Andy promptly dashed ahead of the older boy to the lot indicated. He took one look at the edifice before jumping up to the window and wiping a circle out of the ash-covered window. He then proceeded to press his face against the pane, brown eyes eagerly scanning what he could make of the interior.

"Sure looks dark in there," he remarked quietly, squinting to make out the shapes scattered about inside.

"Well, what did you expect?" Toby said with a roll of his eyes. "This place was abandoned months ago."

The small brown-haired boy tore his gaze from the shop's interior to look at his brother figure curiously. A bit of grime left from the window stood out starkly against the pale skin of his nose.

"Was the owner sick or something?" he inquired.

"Nobody knows," Toby said with a shrug before he walked over to the boy and wiped the offending dirt from the nine-year-old's nose. "The bloke just up and disappeared one night – never came back, I heard."

Andy looked worriedly in the direction of the shop as he rubbed his nose tenderly. "That sounds awful funny to me…"

"Yeah, but that kind of thing actually happens a lot more often than you'd think," Toby said as he turned his back, headed in the direction of the door. He kneeled before it and peered at the lock intently. "There's a good many blokes who do a runner in the middle of the night for some reason or another. Usually it's because they run into trouble and can't get out of it any other way."

"Do you think that's what happened to man who owned this shop?"

The older boy shrugged again as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pouch. "Not sure. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd run into trouble – this end of town started going bad a few years ago after old Duke Mandalay was taken to Bedlam."

Andy's eyes widened. "The old duke in Bedlam? I'd heard something about that! Papers said he was a loony!"

Toby extracted a long, thin set of picks and positioned himself in a crouch. "That's right," he grunted, having found the lock to have rusted over. "A right nutter, I heard. His family committed him after his butler mysteriously vanished. Some people think old Mandalay murdered the bloke."

"Do you think he did it?"

"Doubt it. Jackpot!" Toby smirked in satisfaction as the lock gave. He leaned back on his heels and looked up at the younger boy with a considering look on his face. "Old Mandalay may have been off his rocker, but he wasn't the violent type. Actually, he was about as harmless as they come – used to pitch in for charity events and whatnot. In the end, nobody knows _what_ happened to the butler. Dead or not, considering he's been missing for over five years now, he's probably long gone."

**…**

"Oh, this is getting us _nowhere_!" Grell whined loudly from his spot on the floor. His voice echoed throughout the Grim Reaper's Library, earning him a withering glare from William. The redheaded reaper looked at him with a long-suffering expression. "Why are we even here to begin with? Wouldn't it have been easier just to ask one of the librarians and get it over with?"

"Everyone's gone to the after-party," said William, snapping a Cinematic Record shut in evident irritation. "As it stands, it wouldn't do well to call attention to this latest situation."

"Still, you'd think it would be easy to find a guy's Record with how they're supposed to have things sorted in here," Ronald commented from above. The blond reaper leaned forward from his place on the ladder, peering at the multiple titles with a frown. "I'm finding everything _but_ 'Keinz'. And not a single 'Drocell', either."

"Perhaps it's just been misplaced," the Undertaker suggested amusedly, running an ebony nail along one book's spine. "That's happened to Will Scarlet's record a few times~."

"Not unlikely," William concurred ruefully as he placed aside yet another Record aside, adding onto the rapidly increasing count of rejects. "William _Penn's_ was placed in this section of all places."

"But if it that's the case, then we'll be at this all _week_!" Grell threw his hands in the air, a great deal of books suddenly sent airborne in the process. "I wish Bassy was here!"

All things that go up must come down, as they say, and it was here that gravity chose to enact itself on the redheaded reaper. No sooner had the words left his mouth, the corner of one particularly thick brown leather-bound volume collide into his skull, eliciting from him a sharp cry of pain.

"That's what you get for foolish wishing," William chided with a slight smirk.

"Why me?" Grell lamented. He narrowed his eyes at the offending volume that had fallen into his lap. He snatched it up angrily and made to chuck it as far as he could.

Then he noticed the gold lettering on the spine.

"Oh, I found it!"

The other three reapers looked to him in surprise.

Grell held up the book, revealing the name "Drocell Keinz" for all to see.

**…**

"Whoever owned this placed sure had a lot of stuff," Andy commented happily. "They even had fun toys. Look, Toby!"

The older boy looked over his shoulder from his position in front of the case of chinaware to find the brown-haired child grinning at him from just behind the counter. On his fingers were strange little puppets, all reminiscent of smiling circus performers.

Toby shrugged indifferently. "Strange, but not bad."

"There's a whole bunch of them in a box back here!" Andy said excitedly. "Maybe Miss Christy could sell them in her shop to all the kids at Christmas!"

Toby raised an eyebrow, considering. Christmas was a long way off but there were always birthdays and christenings and the like people would want to buy gifts for, not to mention the occasional frazzled parent wanting to appease his or her child in some materialistic fashion.

"All right, then. We'll take the box back with us and see what Miss Christy says. Just set it on the counter by that tea kettle."

Andy nodded emphatically and ducked behind the counter once again. Toby returned his gaze to the chinaware locked inside the cabinet before him. There were quite a few lovely pieces, he noted.

Happily placing the finger puppets back into their respective box, Andy couldn't help but grin. Toby had always been good at finding things, particularly things that held some kind of value. It never ceased to amaze him how the older boy figured it all out – Andy supposed it must have been a kind of gift.

As he lifted the box of finger puppets onto the counter, Andy felt a draft come from the side of the shop. Frowning, he turned in the direction he felt the small breeze coming from and cocked his head to one side in an attempt to see better. After snatching a quick glance in Toby's direction, he moved to the other end of the shop.

In amidst his consideration of chinaware, trinkets, and curious little odds-and-ends, Toby suddenly found himself torn from his reverie by the sound of Andy calling his name. Giving a bit of a start, he whirled around and called out in response, "Oi?"

An arm covered halfway with a familiar tan shirt waved over to him frantically from round the corner.

"I've found a back door!" Andy cried excitedly. "Come and look at this, Toby! There's a really big house back here! It's _huge_!"

Frowning slightly, Toby crossed the shop, his grip tightened around the neck of the sack he'd procured from behind the counter for the occasion. He had absolutely no idea what Andy was going on about, but it certainly piqued at the older boy's curiosity.

He stepped out into the afternoon sun, stopping just beyond the threshold. Andy jumped up and down merrily, pointing out into the distance whilst wearing an excited grin.

Toby's sack fell to the ground.

"Bloody 'ell," he gasped, his mouth hanging agape. "That's no house…"

**…**

William set his own volume aside and strode up the redhead, eyes trained on the book. Ronald slid down from his perch atop the ladder and approached Grell as well; the Undertaker remained at his place just across from them.

"Talk about serendipity," Ronald commented amusedly, looking over Grell's shoulder. "So, what's it say?"

"Well, let's see…" Grell sat the book in his lap and flipped open the cover.

The anticipated spiel of cinematic film strips poured out in a burst, each image containing a moment in Drocell Keinz's life. But something was off, and by quite a lot. Of the four reapers pooled around the volume, not a single one failed to note the curiously blank film strips.

William's eyes narrowed as he seized one errant filmstrip and yanked it towards him.

"It starts off with that guy in some little shop –" Ronald began, allowing his own set of strips to flow over his hands; "– and then it all goes blank! What the hell?"

"You _must_ be kidding," Grell said incredulously.

William looked at them briefly before returning his double-iris eyes to the blank images slithering across his fingers. "How is this even possible?" he muttered, brow furrowed as he wracked his mind for a possible answer.

"Well now, isn't that something?" The others looked over to the Undertaker. Instead of his usual Cheshire cat grin, he wore a malicious smirk; his eyes glinted beneath his lengthened fringe. "It seems that angel did more damage than you'd anticipated."

**…**

"Who do you think owned this place, Toby?" Andy inquired, peering up at the manor in evident awe.

"That's a good question," Toby answered, eyes wide at the sheer size of the building. He looked over the grounds, not quite what to make of the mansion and the isolated tower just off to the side from where they stood. It looked deserted – abandoned as if the owners hadn't a care as to how the estate would fare once they were gone.

It looked so… _lonely_. Intriguing. And bit frightening, if he were one to admit such a thing. He wanted to go inside as well; the sensible side of him, however, disagreed heavily with the very notion of traipsing in a deteriorating manor.

"Let's go take a look in that mansion! Maybe we can find some nice things for Miss Christy in there!"

"Hold on a second, Andy!" Toby quickly yanked the younger boy by his collar, eliciting a sharp cry of protest.

"Oi, what'd you do that for?"

"Think, stupid!" the older boy reprimanded. "Even if it looks deserted, a place like that's _gotta_ be owned by someone with bags and bags of money! We can't just barge in there!"

"So what do we do?"

"Simple," said Toby, releasing the child's collar. "We use our heads. The main house is too big for us to cover today, so why don't we take the easy route and check out that tower over there?" He pointed in the other direction, indicating the detached building not much farther out. "At least we'll be able to cover the whole thing before it gets dark out."

Andy considered the proposal for a moment. "It sounds okay to me…" Brown eyes glanced longingly at the manor before he looked over to his brother figure pleadingly. "But we can still come back and look at that mansion, right?"

"If we can get an early enough start, but I wouldn't count on finding a lot in there." Toby frowned up at the ominous building. "We were lucky enough with that shop, but something tells me it won't be the case with that manor. It looks like it's been abandoned for a really long time. The tower, too."

"But it can't hurt to look, right?"

Toby replied with a shrug, still with his eyes settled uneasily yet just as longingly on the mansion. He, too, desired to take a peek, but knew all too well that acting on impulse often led to trouble. "Let's just get this over with and get back home before Miss Christy gets upset. We'll get to the manor some other time."

**…**

"The angel?" Ronald looked at his superiors with a rather bemused look pasted upon his handsome features. "You mean the one from last night?"

"It's highly probable," William answered with an aggravated sigh. "After analyzing the information collected from the Cinematic Record belonging to Ciel Phantomhive, it was discovered that the angel – known as both Angela Blanc and Ash Landers – was apparently fond of creative what one might call 'patchwork humans'; in other words, building bodies with the parts of different humans."

Ronald shuddered. "That's _revolting_."

"If the angel was one of the Fallen, it's not all that surprising," said the Undertaker. He looked over at the book, still with a malicious smirk. "The good ones usually don't give us too many problems. This last one obviously wasn't one of them."

"Even if that _thing_ was one of the Fallen, it still doesn't explain _this_!" Grell exclaimed, emphasizing his point with a fistful of blank filmstrips. "Angels have the ability to alter the perception of things – they can't wipe the slate clean!"

"And there's also the question of Drocell Keinz's current state of being," William added, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the tip of his still-present scythe. "There's absolutely no way a soul can be restored after being reaped."

Ronald looked over to Grell, frowning. "Didn't you mention something about that guy having a temporary soul?"

"Sebastian suggested it, and frankly I was inclined to agree with him." Grell sighed. "We'd detected activity from Drocell Keinz's soul five years after it had been collected, so _darling_ Will sent me to look in on it. Temporary souls have occurred before, but not all that often; usually they're only around for a short span of time before they dissipate. They're really quite a nuisance."

"But temporary souls don't cause disruptions in Cinematic Records such as this," William continued. "Once the activity ceases, the Cinematic Record simply registers it as a separate event in the index. Being as it is technically a part of the person's record and yet it isn't, the Record handles the situation in the best way possible."

"I guess that makes sense, but why is Drocell Keinz's Cinematic Record the sudden exception?"

"It's likely that the reaped soul was actually the temporary one and the real soul was transferred into the doll's body," the Undertaker suggested. The three other reapers looked at him, Grell and Ronald with widened eyes; William's frown only deepened.

"Is that even possible?" he demanded.

The Undertaker's smirk widened. "_Transferring_ a soul is just as simple to a supernatural being as whisking an object away. Given the amount of trouble we saw the other night, it's quite clear that the angel in question certainly wasn't weak. If they were able to build a bridge on stolen human souls, ripping a man's soul and placing even a fragmented portion of it into the body of a doll would have been exceptionally easy, I'd imagine."

"And you think that's what happened to Drocell Keinz?" Ronald asked.

"I wouldn't be surprised," said the Undertaker. "From what I can tell on my own, our doll friend back in my parlor is still very much alive by our standards, only he's incomplete. What resides in his current body is only a part of his entire soul, yet it's not all that remains of the original. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say the angel split his soul and left the other part nearby for the sake of control."

"It would make sense…" Grell said slowly. He looked down at the Cinematic Record and closed it; the tendrils of filmstrips disintegrated. "When Bassy asked what he was made of, I remember that Drocell Keinz suddenly froze up. He said something about thinking that he was human, but he'd recently been finding termites coming out of his ears. He found it odd."

"If he didn't realize that he was a doll, that's definitely an indication that something was wrong with him," Ronald said. "He'd have to have been really stupid otherwise."

"This only further supports the hypothesis that his soul had been tampered with." William looked over to the Undertaker inquiringly. "In such an instance, what would become of the Cinematic Record? As it stands, the one we have here is obviously of no use to us. Is it possible to salvage the original for the archives?"

The mortician cackled. "You may as well throw that copy away and just forget about it – with the state his soul is in at the moment, there's no way for you to make a proper Record of it. You started out with a fabricated record and it eventually wore away with the temporary soul. The only way you'll get a proper Cinematic Record is to reconstruct his soul and let him start over."

"But we don't even know where the other portion of his soul is!" Grell protested. "How can you suggest something like that when we don't have the slightest idea where to begin‽"

"At any rate, we can't allow things to lie as they are, Grell Sutcliffe," William said sharply. "The Main Branch will have to be notified of the situation immediately – a falsified Cinematic Record is a serious problem that will need to be rectified as soon as possible."

"What about the other portion of Keinz's soul?" Ronald inquired. "We can't just leave it out there, you know."

"That will also have to be taken care of," William answered. He cast a sidelong glance in Grell's direction. "And _this_ time the job will be done _properly_."

"Well _wherever_ it is, it had to have been relatively close to the guy, right?" The blond reaper looked to the Undertaker expectantly.

The elder reaper nodded, his grin now more akin to his usual Cheshire one. "Quite close. It could have easily been something he kept on him or near him at all times~."

**…**

Toby pushed the door open, grey eyes peering in the murky darkness beyond the threshold intently. The deepening rays of the late afternoon sunlight poured steadily over hardwood floors, revealing what looked to be someone's workshop.

Andy poked his head just under the elder boy's elbow. "Whoever lived here must have had a lot of time on his hands," he remarked.

"I'll say," said Toby, stepping into the room for a closer look. Surrounding them were tables and benches, all of them littered with parts meant for dolls and marionettes of all sizes. Materials were strewn about haphazardly and dust littered the floor.

With just one swift scan of the room, Toby realized that there was truly nothing to be found in here. Several of the doll parts were misshapen or bent, and many runners of fabric were yellowed or stained. Clumps of straw upon the floorboards and a few pieces of splintered wood speckled with the corpses of termites revealed that there would be very little for them to salvage to bring back to their caretaker.

Admittedly, Tobias Forsythe was disappointed. While he'd anticipated the inevitable failure of this endeavor, there was nevertheless a small portion of his being that decried the injustice of having encountered nothing of interest.

"Oi, Toby! I think I found something!" He frowned and looked in the direction of Andy's voice, somewhat disturbed at not seeing the boy at all.

"Where'd you go?" he demanded, moving further into the workshop.

"Right here!" Andy's head popped out from under the bench just opposite from where Toby stood. "You really need to take a look at this thing, Toby! I think Miss Christy might like it!"

The older boy watched as Andy pulled at a leather strap, dragging what at first glance looked akin to a stout wooden box. As the lad continued to bring it out from under the messy workbench, however, Toby immediately recognized it as something entirely different.

It was made of a dark wood and its face was simple yet elegantly decorated with a fleur-de-lis in the center of two speakers and beneath a lighter wood paneling. A hand crank poked out from the side and the leather strap was clasped to either side of the box on hooks screwed into the polished wood. While certainly decorative and fine, there was no denying that such a thing belonged to the likes of organ grinders and other novelty street performers found all throughout London.

"A barrel organ?" He blinked incredulously and knelt down beside his companion. "What's something like that doing in a place like this?"

"Maybe the person who worked in here made it," Andy suggested. "It's really neat!"

"I'll say." Toby lifted the musical instrument up for closer inspection. "There's hardly any dust on it, too." He frowned and looked about the workroom. "But why in here? All I see are things for making dolls."

"Does it work?"

Toby forced himself to refocus. "I dunno. Let's find out." He clasped the side handle and slowly began to crank, finding the seemingly small task to be unexpectedly difficult. The crank was stiff and hesitant, almost as if it were reluctant to play. Toby gritted his teeth and tried once again, putting more force to the task.

Without warning, the crank screeched and turned abruptly, startling the boy into nearly dropping the instrument to the floor. As Toby and Andy watched, the handle turned several times in a continuous loop; the music poured out like something out of a cheap side street performance catering to young children.

And as unexpectedly as it came, the song ended.

Andy looked at the barrel organ with wide and disbelieving eyes. "Do you think we should take it?"

Toby frowned. "Yeah, but we're going to have to change the tune on this thing." He looked over to finding Andy looking at him questioningly. "It shouldn't be too hard; besides, _that_ tune is the _last_ thing anyone would want to hear right now. Other than that, I think it should be all right."

Andy nodded, though he was somewhat disappointed at the prospect of having to alter the barrel organ. He rather liked the instrument as it was, but he knew that Toby was right – though the tune was almost ironic, given London's current predicament, _London Bridge is Falling Down_ would likely not be welcome to the survivors of the inferno for a long time.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Puppet and the Barrel Organ**

Black boots crunched against the heated cobblestone, scattering pebbles in small gusts as each foot came in contact with the ground. Every step was announced with a firm _crunch_ as he trekked along the charred street, his presence barely acknowledged despite his rather curious appearance.

He was an odd character even for London's ruined stage. His vivid auburn hair poked out in spiked snatches from beneath a black top hat sporting a deep red band and black plume; the slight fringe and elongated side-trim framed a rather pale face. Further along down his tall stature hung upon him the clothing reminiscent of a carnival worker: a royal blue coat over an elegant white dress shirt, black trousers, and black-and-white striped stockings under his heeled calf-length boots.

The man's face was even more of a curiosity than his appearance – from the magenta-tinted eyelids that covered his violet eyes to the teal fleur-de-lis tattoo etched beneath his right eye, to the oddly calculating look on his face. While many passerbies chose to ignore him, there were a curious few who chose to gaze upon his countenance and found themselves quickly on their way once more not long after.

Drocell Keinz was able only to frown as he took in the visage of the ashen remnants of what was once heralded as London. His mind was filled with confusion and unanswered questions, the latter of which nagged at him in the most harassing fashion. Where was he? Why was he here? What had become of the city he regarded as his home? Had terror truly fallen upon London since he'd last opened his eyes, or was this all some horrible, twisted dream?

He cast a saddened glance at his right hand. Most assuredly this had to be a dream, leastwise a waking nightmare. Several times already he had turned down the corner of his glove just to be certain, and each time he found the same wooden joint as he had the countless other times before. How it was that he'd come into such an absurd predicament utterly escaped him – he really ought to have remembered _some_ tidbit of information regarding his current state of being, or at least that was what he thought.

Alas, there was nothing – not the faintest trace of a memory, nor even the ghost of a past sight or sound that he could come across. All he could attest to in terms of cognizance were the twists and turns and upturned bricks of the street upon which he trod. The remnants of a few buildings seemed within his grasp of recognizing, yet even that escaped him!

Even without familiar landmarks or signs, Drocell was nevertheless somehow able to navigate through the wreckage.

_So I think to myself, I must surely be somewhere familiar or else I wouldn't be able guide myself so easily…_

He continued along the main road before pausing before a vaguely familiar alleyway. Thinking nothing of it, he turned down the rather unwelcoming detour. His eyes barely flickered at the destroyed brick walls on either side of him and focused instead on the exit.

When Drocell emerged, he found himself at a somewhat familiar connection of streets dotted with shops. He frowned a little in an attempt to figure out his relative location.

Then he saw a shop. _The _shop.

Drocell came to a halt.

It was small but quaint and marked with the number 46 in brass numerals just above the door. The windows were dirty with soot and ash from the inferno that had occurred over a week ago and somewhat warped from the intensity of the flames. The door was burnt and scarred, and the exterior was charred beyond casual recognition.

Compared to the rest of what Drocell had seen of London, the shop was virtually unscathed.

He drew nearer and peered curiously through the dirt-lined windows. Evidently he wasn't the first to do so judging by the numerous handprints and markings lining the lower portion near the sill. He could make out the ghostly outlines of a counter and various trinkets, but little else.

"I know this place…" he muttered. He took another two strides and laid his hand upon the doorknob.

_"Welcome to my shop. Please choose anything you like."_

He pulled his hand back and looked at it curiously. "Odd."

He frowned a little as he gently reached out for the tarnished doorknob. He allowed his fingertips to gently brush against the warmed metal before grasping it entirely. Upon noticing nothing of further peculiarity, Drocell turned the knob and pushed the door inward.

A dusty and ransacked darkened interior solemnly greeted him. The only sources of light to guide his way were the thin and pathetic streamers that filtered through the grime in the window and the more substantial amount that poured in through the opened door. Broken china dolls, shattered tea pots, pearl strands that had been pulled apart – these and other similarly disheveled trinkets looked back at him, each one crying out at the injustice and inhumanity of the scene in their own, silent, way.

Drocell took a step over the threshold and gave a start upon hearing a distinct _crunch_. Peering down as he raised his boot from the hardwood floor, he was somewhat alarmed to find a china doll arm now reduced to dust.

_"Choose anything you like."_

This place was nothing he could hold onto, he realized. Taking another step into the shop, he recognized dimly the counter and the chair to his left. He knew the four corners of this room, knew that further on in the back there was a door.

But a door to where? Most assuredly another dismal place such as this, he reasoned; this entire section of town was nothing but a charred memory thanks to the inferno. He doubted that he would be able to pick up the pieces and continue what he'd done before all this.

_But… what was it that I did?_

He froze. Vague tingles of a memory, less than a phantasm in his mind, flitted once in a barely opaque haze. The name Mandalay was all he could remember, the name of the man he'd served since his teenage years. Puppets, shop keeping, and serving. A letter to be delivered on a snowy evening. The bridge over the Thames. An instrument slung over his neck. Cold, damp snow clinging to his boots. Crunching snow. Beneath his boots.

Beneath the other person's boots.

_"Snuff out the unclean… Snuff out the unnecessary… Tell me, are you unnecessary?"_

"'Allo?"

The redhead gave a jolt and whipped around abruptly, finding himself to have gravitated closer to the counter than he'd realized. A shadow fell across the room like a long and foreboding spectre blocking the door leading out to the main street. Just over the threshold was the shadow's owner: a tall man in his middle age, but decidedly well-built and rough in his appearance.

The stranger frowned heavily at the puppeteer. "Now look 'ere, mate – if you happen to be lootin' this 'ere shop –"

"Forgive me if I'm trespassing," Drocell interrupted, throwing his hands up to indicate that he had no intention of harming the man. "It's just that I recognized this place, and so I thought to myself, 'Perhaps if I come in to look…'"

His voice gave out as the man strode in with a scowl. His heavy boots thudded heavily against the hardwood floor, the heaviest of thuds ending right in front of Drocell.

The boots' owner stared at him intently for a moment, taking in his appearance. The man then gasped, and his face lit up with sudden recognition. "Gor blimey…" Two long strides placed the stranger directly into the puppeteer's startled face. "I'll be… It's really you then, innit? That bloke wot worked 'ere five years ago! Drocell Keinz!"

Drocell blinked at the flushed and bearded face that was mere inches from his own. Bright blue eyes stared back at him happily, and the smell of the man's breath was tangible as it filtered through his open mouth.

He searched for a name, somewhere in his vacant memory. Drocell wasn't the least bit certain how, but he knew he recognized the smile threatening to overtake the man's features, the bushy brows that were nearly to his hairline, the ruddy complexion, the voice…

"Benjamin…" he began, struggling to remember. "Benjamin… Crawley?"

Drocell suddenly found himself in a suffocating embrace.

"Blessed be, 'e remembers me!" Benjamin cried heartily, picking the puppeteer up and swinging him round like a rag doll. "Oh, will wonders never cease! I always knew you'd come back, and lookit what the fire dragged in! Oh, wait 'til my Martha sees this! Thought you another damned trespasser, she did! Martha!"

Drocell raised his hands hurriedly. "No, Ben, I don't think –"

"OI! MARTHA! COME AN' LOOK 'HO I FOUND!"

Drocell cringed at the volume of the man's voice.

A woman with bright red hair that came from its bun in sweaty straggles burst in through the front door, one hand clutching at her skirt and the other gripped round the handle of a frying pan.

The frying pan itself fell immediately upon its owners brown eyes falling upon the man next to her husband.

"Well, I'll be!" she exclaimed. "Drocell Keinz! Dear me, I thought you'd been killed!"

"Killed?" he repeated.

_"Tell me, are you unnecessary?"_

Martha Crawley crossed herself hurriedly and rushed over to wrap her arms around the shell-shocked puppeteer's neck. "Oh, all the horrible things I'd imagined had happened to you! I knew the old duke wouldn't have laid a hand on you! Those wretched newspaper people, writing such horrible things." She quickly released him and looked up at him, practically crying. "But you're alive, and I'm so very glad to see it."

"Same 'ere," said Benjamin, putting one great arm round the redhead and squeezing. "Gave us all a turn, didn't 'e, Martha? Just where 'ave you been then, Drocell? God knows we've been worryin' for over five years now."

Something inside him withered and shrank in the darkened recesses of his being. Five years had passed? Five years of not knowing, and suddenly now being aware of his changed existence?

Drocell felt every bit a fool as he answered in a very subdued tone, "I've been a bit lost, and I honestly can't remember much of what happened to me."

Martha's face fell, and he could feel the tensing of Benjamin's arm.

"Poor dear."

Her words, though kind, stung. While it was true that Drocell could not recall any of what had happened to him in the past five years, it was difficult for him to admit to the fact he also could barely recall the neighbors he had once regarded as his friends. And if he were to reveal that he was no longer the man they had known five years ago, his continued existence would surely arrive to an unsatisfactory close.

"D'ya know you'll do now?" Benjamin asked. "'Ave you a job to go to, or a 'ome?"

"Neither, I'm afraid," he answered miserably. "And I think to myself, 'I may no longer have one, nor will I be able to find one.'"

"With the way things are now, anyone who has a home is lucky," Martha lamented. "Ben and I were lucky. Can't say the same for most of the others. Half the neighbors already left the city."

"Can't says I blame 'em," said Benjamin.

The despair within the puppeteer merely increased tenfold. Had he ever been outside the walls of London? Would it even be possible for him to live beyond the city's perimeter?

His desolation must have been apparent on his face. Martha's next words told him as much, for they came as a consoling sort of suggestion:

"You could always try to find lodging with one of the others who decided to stay in the city."

"Madam?" He looked up at her, dumbfounded.

"There's a seamstress up on the other side of town," the woman explained with a small smile. "She may be young, but she's very experienced. Inherited her shop from her mother and father a few years ago, as a matter of fact. I saw her just the other day out with her two boys and her little girl. Said her shop was a bit singed, but it's fine all the same. I think she may have use for you. Poor dear needs a man about the house, anyway."

"Now, now, Martha!" Benjamin laughed. "Don't go settin' ole Drocell up just yet. Man's just 'ad 'is 'ome ripped away." He looked at the puppeteer his own small grin. "Miss Christy's a good girl, an' a real bright 'un at that. Not that we'd 'ave any problems with you stayin' with us, now. Just we 'aven't got the room. Three kids now, you know."

"I wouldn't impose upon you, anyway," Drocell said with one hand raised in protest. "I would do best to just stay here and attempt to rebuild."

"Not much to rebuild 'ere, I'm afraid," Benjamin said sadly. "I 'eard tell of 'em fixin' to condemn 'alf the city. Wouldn't be much sense in stayin' in a potentially dangerous place."

"And you'll need something to do, dear," Martha insisted. "We know how much you like to work, and it wouldn't do you a fig of good to be out of what you know. Miss Christy's the best person I can come up with now. Mr. Habersham would have been better with his tailor shop, but he's moved on with the others. Took what he had left and headed to Torquay, I heard."

"Torquay," he repeated hollowly. He had some vague memory of the man they spoke of. Tall man, portly. Made the master's clothing. Dark brown suits and one or two dark blue. The black was for funerals, and maybe the occasional wedding.

_"Either way, it's the end! Ha ha!"_

"Where might I find this seamstress?" he heard himself ask over the fog that had again begun to filter through his mind.

"She's up on Brewer Lane, just a little ways from here," said Martha. "_Bits and Bobbins_, it's called. It's a plain little building, but very cozy on the inside. You just talk to her and see if maybe she can help you. I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

"An' if Miss Christy don't need you to 'elp out, then you just come back 'ere an' we'll see what we can do for you," Ben added, clapping the puppeteer on the back.

There was a difference, Drocell found, in walking with a purpose and walking aimlessly.

The voices in his mind had somewhat abated in favor of allowing his mind to retain the address given to him by Martha Crawley. 221 Brewer's Lane, Martha had said. _Bits and Bobbins_. A seamstress's shop, sure to be filled with fabrics, buttons, threads, strands, strings, clasps, needles….

_A little here, a little there. Nick here, sew there. A dexterous hand soon fixed a tiny corner undone on the doll's apron. And all the while, the tinny melody played from the box in the corner._

He nearly tripped on one of the larger pieces of debris littering the street.

What was wrong with him? He looked in the dirty window of a nearby shop, wondering vaguely if his answer could be found in his reflection.

No, he thought sullenly. His reflection would do him no good; all it showed was the shell he knew himself to be at this moment. Whatever answers London may have held for him at one time were likely gone to the inferno, not holed up in dirty glass.

He closed his eyes and sighed. _And so I think to myself, 'I must certainly be a hopeless case in an even more hopeless city.'_

He took a step away, dejected, and then froze.

Drocell felt something inside of him seize. He didn't know the reason for this unexplainable phenomenon, nor was he sure that he even cared to know. It was a strange sensation, almost as if induced by _déjà vu_ or whatever it was that the fortunetellers and gypsies so often whispered to wary passerby.

The street was empty and eerily silent. The noises of looters and people attempting reclaim what they could from the fire were mysteriously absent, and not even the wind whistled as it had only moments before.

And, by God, it was cold! The winter chill he hadn't felt previously now made its presence known in the most ferocious way possibly, and it took everything the puppeteer had to not shiver uncontrollably. The drifts of snow felt as if they were lampoons of ice, and the grey sky foretold doom and despair.

He blamed it on his incomprehensible situation. This body he inhabited, this strange new London he now found himself in – he was himself, but he was a himself that was lacking. There was too much of him that was missing, and even more that was left unexplained.

_Build him up with wood and clay… wood and clay… wood and clay… Build him up with wood and clay…_

Those weren't the words, were they? No, he thought, frightened. Not the exact words. Nor was that a familiar woman's voice singing inside his head. Or was it? He could no longer tell. His mind, he feared, was more muddled than that of the Mad Hatter.

He felt himself begin to move again, more automatically than consciously. Yes, there was indeed a difference in walking with purpose and walking aimlessly, he noted through the newly returned fog. If only he could discern it.

Snow drifts. Ashes floating from the rooftops. What a desolate backdrop London had become! So much more depressing than it ever had been before.

Wasn't it?

_Build him up with wood and clay… wood and clay… wood and clay…_

The singing voice returned, louder than before. Clearer. It unnerved him and enticed him. On and on it looped, the song pulling him along in some unknown direction. Was he still going the way to the seamstress's shop, as Martha had instructed?

_… build him up with wood and clay… My fair lady._

His answer eventually came in the form of a small girl gazing up at him from beyond the threshold of an opened shop door.

"All you all right, Mister?" she asked politely, her bright blue eyes round with worry and curiosity. "You've been standing there for quite some time now."

"Many apologies," Drocell almost stammered, stunned at how time had once again lapsed without his knowing. He looked over her fair head into the shop and felt a small hope begin to blossom at the sight of spools of thread and bolts of fabric. "Would this the shop belonging to a Miss Christabel Evans?"

"Yes, sir," the girl chirped with a broad and toothy grin. "_Bits and Bobbins_. Would you like me to fetch Miss Christy for you?"

"I was told to come here," he said absently, attempting to divide his gaze between the girl and the shop beyond her.

"Some people are, and some people aren't. Either way, you're welcome," said the girl, now tugging on the sleeve of his coat. "Come in and look 'round! Stay by the fire to get warm, and I'll be right back with Miss Christy."

He permitted himself to be dragged into the shop. The girl quickly closed the door against the frigid air and, with another cheerful smile, bounded past the counter and through the door beyond, leaving the puppeteer to his own devices.

He wouldn't go too near the fire, he told himself. He dared not. Not in his state. Not unless he was willing to become kindling. He might not have been able to feel much, but he had no interest in discovering what this body of his might feel were he to catch on fire.

He chose instead to do as the girl had first suggested, and he passed his gaze around the shop, taking in the sight of the many bolts of fabric, the strips of ribbons and lace, the spools of thread, the wooden drawers that undoubtedly held buttons and snaps and other little details. These were the defining items of a seamstress's shop.

Curiously, however, sewing and mending goods were not all Miss Christabel Evans sold in her shop. On the wall to his left, opposite the fabrics and drawers and spools, were shelves lined with trinkets and toys – frivolous little items that caught the eye with their charm.

He took a step near, taking in the menagerie of stuffed bears and porcelain dolls, small sets of delicate china and little wooden toys, hand-carved and painted with attention to detail.

It was in the corner, where this wall and the mantle of the fireplace met, that he saw the wooden box.

Taking care to keep his distance from the crackling flames, Drocell stood in front of the hearth, taking up the box in his hands and holding it up in the firelight for observation. It was not a box, he soon realized, but a barrel organ. A well-crafted thing, slightly weighty. A hand crank, recently polished, stuck out and shone in the fire's glow.

"And so I think to myself, looking at you, 'I feel as though I am greeting an old friend.'"

He turned the barrel organ over in his hands, feeling its grooves and nicks, the grain of the wood and the smoothness of the handle. If it was not indeed the barrel organ he'd once possessed, it was most certainly an accurate facsimile.

The instrument struck him suddenly as being lifeless, a fact that troubled him considerably. Since when could an inanimate object such as a barrel organ have life to it?

_Since when did a puppet?_ a voice asked him cruelly.

It was when he turned the hand crank that he suddenly, startlingly, found his answer. With just one turn, the barrel organ blared to life, jolting and playing an inappropriately cheery (yet chilling!) carnival tune. _London Bridge is Falling Down_ filled the room with tinny brilliance, and it took everything Drocell had not to drop the instrument in fright as the words began to form in his head and cloud his mind.

_London Bridge is falling down… falling down… falling down…_

A sharp gasp broke the spell.

In the mirror on the shelf that was to his eye level, a woman he assumed to be Christabel Evans had covered her mouth in astonishment. The little girl stood just behind her, wide-eyed and awestruck.

Drocell looked over his shoulder, almost imploringly. "Would you mind telling me, my lady," he said, "how much you are asking for this?"

It took her a moment before she was able to tear her eyes from the cranking wheel. Her face was stark white behind the wavy straggles of chestnut hair that had come loose from the bun atop her head.

"It… It isn't for sale, sir," she managed over the tinny melody. "It hadn't worked since the day Toby and Andy brought it in. It wouldn't work no matter _who_ tried it."

"It… doesn't work?" Drocell frowned and returned his gaze to the instrument. "How odd. So very odd. And yet I think to myself, 'If it was broken, it should surely not play as it does now.'"

"No, sir," Christabel agreed, looking at the barrel organ as well. "It most certainly should not be playing."


End file.
